


Fraternity

by avantegarda



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Kids, Maglor really wants a baby sister, good luck mags, i don't know what this is i'm just out here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-04-06 23:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avantegarda/pseuds/avantegarda
Summary: Being an older brother will always take some getting used to.





	1. The Loud One (Maedhros and Maglor)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to another installment of "I have another WIP I am in the middle of but I had a burst of inspiration so that's how it be."

It had been a long and worrisome day, and as Maedhros waited in the sitting room, nervously tapping his feet against the legs of his chair, he began to wonder if his new baby sibling would  _ ever  _ arrive. Or even if the baby did come, would his mother ever be the same again, or would she be so tired she would have to go sleep forever, like Grandmother Miriel had?

At the sight of his father, exiting the bedroom and holding a tiny blanket-wrapped lump, Maedhros leapt to his feet. “Is Mother all right?”

“Of course, she’s just resting,” Fëanor replied, with a weary but joyful smile. “It’s a difficult business, having a baby, you know, but you can see her soon. In the meantime, say hello to your little brother, Nelyo.”

Maedhros eyed the small bundle in his father’s arms with suspicion. In his ten years of life, he had met very few babies that he could remember, and he didn’t think this one was anything particularly impressive. The creature had a small, wrinkled red face that reminded Maedhros a bit of a trained monkey he’d once seen in the Tirion marketplace, and a mop of wild dark brown curls that were still slightly damp. Other than that, it seemed to have no distinguishing features at all.

“Hello,” Maedhros said hesitantly, before glancing up at his father. “How long will it be before he looks like a person?”

Fëanor chuckled, rocking the baby gently from side to side. “Why, he looks like one now, of course! This is how nearly all babies look at first. Even you looked much like him when you were born, though of course you were much bigger.”

Maedhros found this a bit difficult to believe, but elected not to say so. “Did I have hair already when I was born?”

“You did, beautiful red hair, just like your mother. And I had hair when I was born too, your grandfather says. It must be a family trait.”

That his father had ever been a tiny baby was even harder to comprehend; Maedhros had a sudden vision of a dark-haired infant wearing a smith’s apron and holding a hammer, and giggled. “But my baby brother needs a name, doesn’t he, Father? What are we going to call him?”

The baby, at this moment, chose to screw up his eyes and let out a howl the likes of which Maedhros had never heard, so loud he had to clap his hands over his ears. Even then, the air seemed to tremble with noise until finally— _ finally _ —the baby closed his mouth.

“Well, I am not sure what name your mother will come up with,” Fëanor said at last. “But  _ I  _ am going to call him Kanafinwë.”

 

Nerdanel, a few weeks later, announced that the baby’s mother-name would be Makalaurë—Gold-Cleaver. 

“That’s a pretty name,” Maedhros said. Though he still found little Kanafinwë to be dull at best and extremely irritating at worst, he’d been told several times by Fëanor that it was strictly necessary to be cheerful around his mother. “Do you think he’s going to make jewelry like Father?”

“Oh, no, it’s a metaphor,” Nerdanel said brightly, bouncing the baby in her arms. “It’s got a secret meaning, that is. He’s going to have the most beautiful singing voice of anyone in Valinor.”

Maedhros frowned skeptically. The baby made lots of noises, certainly, most of them very loud, but very few that could be considered beautiful, let alone singing. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am sure! Mothers are always right about this sort of thing. After all, I named you Maitimo, and you’re my handsome boy, aren’t you?” Nerdanel winked and ruffled his hair, and Maedhros let relief wash over him; Mother, it seemed, hadn’t forgotten him. Still, he had to make sure.

“Mother, you won’t...you don’t love Makalaurë more than me, do you?”

Nerdanel smiled and bent down, kissing him on the forehead. “Not a bit, my love. I love you both precisely the same amount.”

It wasn’t exactly the answer Maedhros had been hoping for, but he knew his mother had meant well.

 

Little Kanafinwë’s Naming Day was one of the most horrible days Maedhros could remember. Not only did he have to wear his heavy dress robe with its itchy high collar and sit through the dull, dry ceremony that seemed to take weeks, but even when they were finally able to eat at chat with the family all anyone wanted to discuss was the new baby. Grandfather Finwë, in particular, seemed completely enamored with him, much to Maedhros’ annoyance.

“He’s certainly got your eyes, Curufinwë,” he declared. “But your nose, Nerdanel! And freckles, too! Absolutely beautiful. Of course I shouldn’t be surprised that my talented son and daughter-in-law only produce children that are absolute masterpieces.”

Maedhros wasn’t altogether certain what a “masterpiece” was, but it certainly didn’t sound like a word that applied to little Kanafinwë, who was happily snoozing in Nerdanel’s arms. Unless “masterpiece” meant “potato,” which was what the baby resembled most of all.

“And look how peacefully he’s sleeping,” Anairë gushed, rubbing her own swollen belly and leaning against her husband’s arm. “I hope ours will be as well-behaved when he is born in a few months.”

“He’s not actually very well-behaved,” Maedhros informed them. “Last night he screamed for hours. Father says he’s the loudest baby on the continent. And he sleeps all day but stays awake at night, like an owl.”

Fëanor shot him a sharp look, and Maedhros felt his stomach clench with guilt. Luckily, the rest of the adults just laughed.

“It must be hard to adjust to having a new baby at home, eh?” Finwë chuckled, patting Maedhros gently on the shoulder. “Never you fear, sweetheart. Soon he’ll be old enough that you two will be the best of friends.”

_ Father and Uncle Nolofinwë are brothers, and they’re not friends, _ Maedhros thought petulantly, leaning against his grandfather’s leg.  _ They don’t even get along. _ He pictured himself and Kanafinwë, grown up, frowning at each other from opposite sides of the room like Fëanor and Fingolfin seemed to do whenever they were together, and for some reason the thought made his eyes brim with tears.

His grandfather, fortunately, noticed right away. “Ah, Nelyo, you’ve had a long day, haven’t you?” he asked kindly, lifting Maedhros in his strong arms. “Let’s you and I go read a story together. We will let your aunts and uncles get to know little Makalaurë better.”

“Grandfather?” Maedhros asked sleepily, as Finwë carried him from the crowded ballroom. “Are you  _ sure  _ that we will be friends?”

Finwë kissed him on the top of his head and squeezed him gently. “You will, love. But only if you can be patient with one another.”

 

“Look, Makalaurë, it’s a dog,” Maedhros said, showing his baby brother the velvet toy puppy Nerdanel had made for him in his infancy. “Can you say ‘dog’?”

Maglor nodded, stretching out his small hands eagerly. “Mine dog.”

By the time Maglor was two years old, Nerdanel’s prediction for his talents seemed to be coming true: even at his age it was plain that he was intensely, undeniably musical. When left to his own devices at the dinner table he would hit his plate with a fork in perfect, toe-tapping rhythm, and when Fëanor and Nerdanel would sing to him he would sing back; still in baby babble, but hitting every note flawlessly. 

Now that he had finally learned to speak, however, Maedhros was determined to break him of the habit of prefacing everything he said with “mine.”

“No, not  _ your  _ dog, he’s my dog. Just say ‘dog.’”

Maglor’s lip quivered dangerously, and he reached for the toy that Maedhros held just out of his grasp. “ _ Mine  _ dog.”

“Look at my big clever boy, speaking so beautifully!” Nerdanel exclaimed, sweeping into the room and scooping up Maglor before he could start screaming. “Can you say ‘I love you, Mama’?”

“IluhyouMama,” Maglor responded obediently.

“Good boy!” Nerdanel kissed Maglor on the forehead, before setting him down on the floor in front of Maedhros. “Now tell your brother, dear. Say ‘I love you, Nelyo.’”

Maglor dropped into Maedhros’ lap, wrapping his chubby arms around his elder brother’s middle. “IluhyouNel.”

In later years, Maedhros would firmly declare that this was  _ not  _ the moment he first loved his brother. But it was an indisputable fact that even if he’d loved Maglor all along, this was the precise instant he first realized it.

“I love you too, Makalaurë,” he whispered, pulling Maglor into a tight hug. “I love you very much.”


	2. The Wild One (Maglor and Celegorm)

What Maglor had really wanted, at the age of fourteen, was a baby sister. Master Lantanen, Maglor’s music teacher, and his wife had an adorable two-year-old daughter who Maglor loved playing with, and he liked the idea of his family having their own sweet, quiet little girl for him to sing lullabies and read stories to. When she got a little older he could teach her how to read and play music and she would ask him loads of questions and think he was as brave and intelligent as Maedhros. They would be best friends, Maglor knew—well, maybe not as much as he was with Maedhros, but nearly best friends anyway.

But much to his disappointment, Maglor did not get a sweet, quiet baby sister. Instead, he got Celegorm.

Tyelkormo Turkafinwë, his parents called the new baby; in short, Fast and Strong. These names seemed accurate enough, as by the time he was a few months old Celegorm could already crawl across a room at an astonishing speed and had a grip nearly strong enough to break fingers. At a year old he could run faster and shout louder than any child Maglor had ever met (though, Maedhros claimed, Maglor as a baby had been just as loud). And while he would occasionally deign to fall asleep in someone’s lap after a long day of running about like a wild animal, he showed absolutely no interest in listening to lullabies or reading stories or sitting still for more than an hour at a time.

The worst part, though, was that while little Celegorm’s boundless energy meant that he had little patience for being cuddled by anyone for long, he seemed to particularly dislike being held by Maglor. Whenever he was placed in Maglor’s lap he would immediately start wiggling like a worm until Maglor inevitably dropped him, causing both of them to burst into tears.

“Tyelko hates me, Nelyo,” Maglor said despondently, after a particularly upsetting incident in which Celegorm had wriggled out of his arms and fallen, headfirst, into the garden fountain. “He won’t let me hold him.”

Maedhros shrugged, barely glancing up from his book. “Tyelko doesn’t really like anyone to hold him for very long. He wants to be running about naked and having adventures.”

“But he lets you and Mother and Father hold him for much longer. And he always throws things when I’m trying to play with him, and he always pulls my hair.” Maglor rubbed furiously at his eyes, trying to keep from bursting into tears. “He  _ hates  _ me.”

With a sigh, Maedhros set down his book and put an arm around Maglor’s shoulders. “He doesn’t hate you, Makalaurë, I promise. But maybe...do you remember how Father said some animals can sense when people are afraid?”

“Like wolves,” Maglor sniffled.

“Yes, like wolves. Well, maybe Tyelko is like a wolf. He can tell that you’re nervous around him, and so he is naughty around you. You should try and show him you’re not scared, like the lead wolf. After all, he is still just a baby, and you are much more clever and strong than he is.”

Maglor didn’t feel particularly strong  _ or  _ clever when compared to the rest of his family, but he nodded. “All right. But Maitimo,  _ you  _ still love me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, silly brother. And Tyelkormo does too. You just need to show him who is in charge.”

 

Maglor was rarely put in charge of watching Celegorm; on the rare days when he didn’t go into town for his music lessons with Master Lantanen there were still art lessons with Mother or writing and history lessons with Father to occupy his time. He was eager to put Maedhros’ theory into practice, though, and so on a rare day when Fëanor had decided to take Maedhros into the city and Nerdanel was busy in her workshop Maglor immediately volunteered to look after Celegorm.

“Are you sure, dear?” Nerdanel asked, frowning first at Maglor, then at Celegorm, who was lying on the sitting room rug and meowing like a cat, for no discernable reason. “I do have some work I’d like to get done, but I don’t want Tyelkormo to be naughty and upset you…”

“He won’t upset me,” Maglor said firmly. “I’ll make sure he is very good.”

Nerdanel hesitated, then nodded. “Very well, then. Come find me  _ right away  _ if you have any trouble.”

When their mother had departed, Maglor turned to his baby brother, eyeing him carefully. “Hello, Tyelko. We are going to have a good time together, all right? And you are going to listen to me and be a good boy, because I am older than you.”

Celegorm, now nearly two years old and approximately twice the size Maglor had been at that age, stuck out his tongue and blew a very loud raspberry. He  _ could  _ talk, by this point, but when given a choice he preferred to communicate mainly in rude noises. Maglor resolved not to lose his temper; after all, Celegorm was still a baby, and probably did not know how to be polite yet.

“Good. We can play with blocks. I am going to build a house, and you can help me.”

It went well, at first. The blocks were brightly colored enough to keep Celegorm’s attention, and even though he wasn’t much use at stacking them, he seemed perfectly happy trying to fit them in his mouth while Maglor carefully stacked them into a passable replica of the family home. “There!” said Maglor brightly at last, putting one last block on top of the roof. “We made a lovely house, didn’t we, Tyelko? Aren’t you proud?”

In response, Celegorm pulled back his strong little fist and, much to Maglor’s horror, punched the carefully constructed house with a shout of triumph, knocking it to pieces.

Without thinking, Maglor bared his teeth and growled fiercely, in a quite passable imitation of an angry wolf. Celegorm stumbled back and landed on his bottom, whimpering slightly and looking up at his elder brother with genuine fear in his eyes. For a moment Maglor felt horribly guilty, before Celegorm sat up, giggled, and growled back.

“Woof,” he said eagerly.

“That’s right, wolf,” Maglor replied, patting him on the head. “And you’re just like a little wolf, aren’t you. Would you like me to tell you a story about a wolf?”

Celegorm nodded eagerly, sticking his thumb in his mouth. “‘Ess.”

“All, right, then. Once upon a time, there was a brave little wolf puppy named Tyelko…”

“Me!” 

“That’s right, just like you. And one day this brave little wolf decided to go on an adventure all by himself, far away from home…”

 

An hour later Maedhros peeked into the room, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Is Tyelko...sleeping?”

“Shh!” Maglor whispered, gently cradling his little brother in his arms. “Yes, he fell asleep as soon as I finished the story. I guess he needed some rest.”

“You got him to sit still long enough for you to tell him a story?” Maedhros shook his head wonderingly. “However did you manage that?”

Maglor grinned. “I did what you told me to. I was the lead wolf.”


	3. The Angry One (Celegorm and Caranthir)

It wasn’t so much that Celegorm was  _ disappointed  _ in the new baby. Maglor was disappointed, of course—the second-oldest brother had made it clear that he was still desperate for a baby sister—and even Maedhros seemed a bit let down that the fourth sibling in the family was another brother, though he was far too polite to say much about it. Twelve-year-old Celegorm, though, would firmly deny that he was disappointed. It was more that he was...underwhelmed.

“He’s not a very pretty baby, is he?” he remarked, as they gathered around the bed where Nerdanel sat holding their new brother. The infant stared around the room, brow furrowed fiercely and cheeks blazing scarlet. He certainly wasn’t a prepossessing sight.

“Tyelko!” Maglor scolded, elbowing him in the ribs. “Don’t be rude!”

“Well, he isn’t!” Celegorm retorted. “He’s bright red and his face is all wrinkly. He looks like a dried-up cherry.”

“All babies are wrinkly at first, Tyelkormo,” Nerdanel said gently. “Even you were.”

“You and Makalaurë both looked like tiny old monkeys when you were born,” Maedhros put in with a mischievous smile. “At least this fellow is an interesting color.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Nerdanel said, kissing the new baby on his flushed forehead. “I think I will call him Carnistir.”

Celegorm privately held a theory that both his parents had given little Caranthir names that referred to his appearance simply because if they had named the baby after his personality, his name would have to be something along the lines of Bad-Tempered And Noisy. Caranthir’s mood ranged from frowning and sniffling to screaming and biting, and the only times he ever seemed close to content were when Nerdanel or Maglor were holding him and singing to him.

Still, Celegorm was determined that he and his new brother should become the best of friends. Maedhros and Maglor were best friends, after all, always giggling over private jokes and whispering secrets to each other, and Celegorm wanted more than anything else a best friend of his own. He’d tried to become friends with his cousin Turgon, who was only two years older than him, but Turgon was proper and boring and didn’t like any animals except birds. There was Finrod, but he was always either poring over dull books with Turgon or peppering Maglor with questions about music, and Aredhel was still just a baby. Of all the friend candidates in the family, then, Celegorm was fairly sure Caranthir was his best bet.

The main trouble was that as Caranthir grew older, he didn’t seem to share any of Celegorm’s interests. Or anyone’s interests, really.

“Do you want to go splash in the fountain?”

“No,” Caranthir, now all of three years old, replied from his place on the bottom bunk in his and Celegorm’s room. He didn’t look up from the colorful buttons he was carefully counting as Celegorm went on.

“Well, do you want to go catch butterflies in the garden?”

“No.”

“How about looking under rocks to see if we can find some worms?”

“No.”

“We could get Nelyo and Kano to play tag with us.”

“ _ No!” _

Celegorm scowled and kicked the wall in frustration. “You don’t like anything! What  _ do  _ you want to do?”

Caranthir appeared to contemplate this. “Want nap,” he said at last.

“You can’t have a nap, you just woke up an hour ago!”

“Want  _ nap!”  _ Caranthir cried, face crumpling threateningly. Soon he would start screaming and kicking and biting, and would be utterly useless for hours afterward. Celegorm let out a shriek of annoyance and fled, before the inevitable temper tantrum could start. Let Nerdanel sort out the little brat, or Maedhros, or Maglor if he got back from his endless music lessons in time. He was absolutely done trying to get that awful little creature to like him.

Rounding a corner, he crashed into a familiar, solid figure and tumbled to the floor, biting his lip to keep from crying as his father laughed and lifted him to his feet. “Why are you upset, my brave boy?” Fëanor asked, lifting Celegorm’s chin with a long, calloused finger. “Hmm? Did you argue with one of your brothers?”

“Just a bit, yes. Father, I don’t...I don’t think Moryo and I are going to be best friends,” Celegorm admitted, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “Not like Nelyo and Kano are.”

“And what makes you say that?”

Celegorm shrugged. “I think we are just too different. He doesn’t like playing outside, and I don’t like staying indoors all day and napping and counting.”

“Well, there is no shame in that. We all have different interests, you know. And you needn’t worry about whether you have the same friendship with Moryo that Nelyo and Kano have. It doesn’t change the fact that you are brothers.”

“Yes, but brothers ought to be best friends, oughtn’t they? Otherwise…” Celegorm swallowed. “Otherwise who  _ will  _ be my best friend?”

Pain flashed across Fëanor’s usually stoic features, and Celegorm remembered too late that Fëanor was  _ not  _ best friends with his brothers, and didn’t even like talking about them much. Quickly, he tried to change the subject. “Who is your best friend, Father?”

Fëanor smiled, his eyes softening. “Your mother. Before I met her, I was lonely sometimes, too. And now, not only do I have her, but I have four beautiful and clever children who bring me joy every day. You’ll always have me to look after you when you feel lonely, Tyelko, and as you get older and figure out what you want to do you will find many friends who will love you. I can almost guarantee that you won’t be lonely, even if you and Moryo are not the best of friends. But can you do something for me, Tyelkormo?”

Celegorm nodded eagerly. “Absolutely, Father!”

“Even if you and Moryo are never as close as you would like to be, do not let that stop you from loving each other. You may be very different, and you may not always get along. But love each other, nonetheless.”

“All right. I’ll try. But Father?”

“Yes, love?”

“If I am still lonely when I’m older...may I have a dog?”

Fëanor chuckled, tousling his son’s hair. “We’ll see, Tyelko. We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby Caranthir headcanons I will die for: Bites, and says "no" to everything.


	4. The Favorite One (Caranthir and Curufin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sliiiightly longer than usual due to Caranthir and Curufin both having a lot of insecurities they need to work through. Poor little nerds.

By the time the family’s fifth child was in the process of being born, the eldest three were thoroughly accustomed to the whole procedure. Only Caranthir, aged eleven, had not yet had the delightful experience of waiting in the sitting room while Fëanor and the healers looked after Nerdanel, and he was desperately trying not to reveal how worried he was.

“So what do you think we’ll get this time?” Caranthir asked, hoping his voice wouldn’t betray his nerves. “A brother or a sister?”

Maglor, sitting upside-down in an armchair and absentmindedly plucking his lute, let out a dramatic sigh. “I’ve all but given up hope of a baby sister at this point; Mother and Father seem incapable of producing anything but boys. It’s quite a shame, though, I really would love to have a little girl in the family for us to be annoyingly protective of.”

“If we get a baby sister who is anything like Mother, she won’t need much looking after,” Maedhros chuckled. “But personally, and for completely unselfish reasons, I hope our new sibling will be some sort of craftsperson. I think it’s a bit disappointing for Mother and Father that not one of the four of us has decided to follow in their footsteps.”

A low bark sounded from the corner of the room, and Celegorm laughed, scratching Huan behind his huge, hairy ears. “Huan thinks that our new sibling will be a puppy. I have to say, I wouldn’t mind that.”

“As if we need any more feral creatures in this house,” Maglor sniffed. “I don’t know why we allow that  _ horse  _ in the sitting room anyway.”

“He’s not a  _ horse,  _ he’s a  _ wolfhound,  _ and he’s my best friend.”

“Which would you prefer, Carnistir?” Maedhros interrupted quickly, before Maglor and Celegorm could start another of their famously loud arguments. “A brother or a sister?”

Caranthir shrugged. “I don’t know. Either is all right, I suppose. As long as they aren’t too loud and naughty.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Moryo,” Celegorm said with a grin, “but  _ all  _ babies are loud and naughty from time to time. Father says that even perfect Maitimo refused to sleep for days at a time, Makalaurë screamed loud enough to break windows, I made everyone drop me constantly, and  _ you  _ bit like a wild animal. This new one is likely to be even worse.”

“All the manners got distributed early,” Maglor snickered. “If Mother and Father keep having children the youngest ones will be like demons from the Outer Lands.”

“Hush, Makalaurë! You shouldn’t say such things,” Maedhros insisted, though there was a hint of a smile on his face. “Moryo, don’t worry, dear. We were all a bit naughty at first, yes, but that’s how babies are. As you can see, all of us turned out to be very handsome and intelligent,  _ including  _ you.”

Intelligent, Caranthir agreed with, but it was difficult to believe that anyone other than his mother could find him handsome. It seemed as though the looks as well as the manners had been distributed early; Maedhros and Maglor, both well into adolescence, seemed to have girls giggling over them all the time, and while Celegorm was still too young for that sort of thing the third brother was still shaping up to be very good-looking. Caranthir had been told by both his parents that his coloring was charming and unusual and he would soon grow into his nose, but he couldn’t imagine anyone outside his family ever thinking he was beautiful.

But there was no time to contemplate his relative attractiveness to the rest of the family, for their father was standing in the doorway smiling broadly, and telling them to come upstairs and meet the new baby. 

 

It was a boy, yet again. Caranthir found himself slightly relieved; not that he would have minded a baby sister, but he knew how to  _ act  _ around brothers, whereas a sister would have been an entirely foreign concept.

“What will his name be?” 

“Atarinkë,” said Nerdanel, at the exact moment Fëanor said, “Curufinwë.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, before the eldest three brothers looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“Oh, goodness!” Maglor cried. “You’re  _ both  _ naming him after Father! Did you plan this ahead of time?”

Fëanor looked miffed. “Naturally not. But great minds think alike, as they say. And look at the lad; doesn’t he remind you of me?”

Inspecting the baby in his father’s arms closely, Caranthir had to admit his father was right. The new baby did resemble Fëanor greatly—not only the thick dark hair and bright silvery eyes, but something about the way he  _ looked  _ at one, with an air of cool superiority. It was not at all difficult to imagine him inventing alphabets or piecing together armor fit for the Valar. Perhaps Maedhros was right this time, Caranthir thought. Perhaps their father would finally have a son who shared his passions.

“Hello, little Curufinwë,” Caranthir whispered, patting the baby gently on the head. “Good luck.”

 

The trouble with little Curufin was not that he was loud or naughty. As far as babies went, in fact, he was fairly well-behaved. No, the trouble with Curufin was that he was  _ perfect. _

Like all his brothers, Caranthir had started a basic smith’s apprenticeship with his father at fifteen, though of the older ones only Maedhros had actually completed it (Maglor had quit as soon as he turned thirty and gave his first concert, and Celegorm had had so little patience for the work that Fëanor had turned him loose to hunt with Orome as soon as the boy was old enough to hold a bow). Caranthir didn’t particularly enjoy the work, preferring the relative quiet of the library to the hot, noisy forge, but was determined to see the thing through, if only to keep his father happy. Curufin, on the other hand, had shown such a natural aptitude for craftsmanship that he’d been allowed in the forge since the age of ten and soaked up Fëanor’s instructions like a sponge, to the point where he’d begun to consider himself the family’s foremost expert on all things mechanical. And it made Caranthir’s lessons when Curufin was in the forge almost unbearable

“You’re doing that wrong.”

Caranthir looked down with annoyance at his thirteen-year-old brother, whose expression was one of serene confidence. “No, I am not. I’m doing just what Father told me.”

“But you’re not doing it  _ right,”  _ Curufin insisted. “You didn’t hammer it thin enough. It’s going to look messy.”

“Curvo, I am eleven years older than you and have been studying with Father for eight years, I think by this point I know what I am doing!”

“What are we arguing about this time, boys?” Fëanor asked, peering carefully over Caranthir’s shoulder. “Working hard, Moryo? It’s a good start, but you didn’t hammer it thin enough there. It’s going to look a bit messy, you see?”

Caranthir bit back a growl and looked sharply at Curufin, who grinned back at him with smug satisfaction. There was no need for him to say “I told you so”; the fifth brother knew perfectly well that he had won.

When the dreadful lesson had finally finished, Caranthir ripped off his heavy, smelly leather apron and dashed to the kitchen, where, just as he’d hoped, his mother was busy kneading bread dough. She glanced up as Caranthir flopped angrily onto a stool, offering him a sympathetic smile.

“What’s the matter, my little hedgehog?”

Caranthir grimaced at being called by his baby nickname, but decided to ignore it. “Mother, is Curufinwë Father’s favorite?”

Nerdanel seemed lost for words for a moment, and Caranthir’s heart sank. “I knew it,” he said, kicking the table leg angrily. “I  _ knew  _ it. He is, isn’t he.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Nerdanel put a soothing, floury hand on her son’s shoulder. “Oh, no. Your father loves each and every one of you more than anything, you know that, don’t you?”

“But Curvo is his  _ favorite _ .”

Nerdanel shook her head firmly. “Your father doesn’t have favorites, Carnistir. He doesn’t love Curufinwë a bit more than he loves you. But...well, let me see if I can explain properly. You, my clever boy, are very passionate about numbers and sewing, aren’t you? And do you sometimes feel a bit left out when your brothers are not quite as interested in those things as you are?”

“Well, yes. A bit.”

“Then just think about how it must be for your father. He is just as passionate about science and invention and creating things as you and your brothers are about your interests. And he has spent years hoping for someone to share that with. Now that little Curufinwë is here, and is so excited about learning your father’s trade...well, I’m sure you can understand why your father is so pleased.”

“I suppose so,” Caranthir replied with a sigh. “But sometimes I worry Father will forget all about the rest of us.”

“I know, dear. He is a wonderful man, but he has his flaws, just like the rest of us, and losing himself in his work is one of them. Be patient with him, Carnistir. He loves you, he really does.”

 

In the thirteen years he had known his younger brother, Caranthir had almost never seen Curufin cry. And indeed, the small boy wasn’t exactly  _ crying  _ when Caranthir came across him in the library, staring at a book without reading it and nervously swinging his feet back and forth, but the amount of sniffing and eye-rubbing he was doing certainly implied that he was upset.”

“What’s wrong? Are the older boys teasing you?”

Curufin shook his head, not looking up from the small piece of silver wire he was fiddling with. Caranthir frowned, another idea forming in the back of his mind.

“Is Father being too hard on you?”

“Father  _ has  _ to be hard on me,” Curufin said quickly. “Otherwise I won’t get better. It’s because I’ve got po...potential. So I’m not upset with him. But…”

“Yes?”

“Well, why can’t he talk about me the way he talks about the rest of you? Father brags about you lot  _ all the time.  _ Nelyo could be High King tomorrow if he wanted to. Makalaurë sings like a Vala. Tyelko is brave and strong and you’re focused and hardworking. But he never says things like that about me, at least not when I’m around.”

Caranthir let out a slow breath, trying to conceal how surprised he was that perfect little Curufin could ever feel insecure. “Father usually doesn’t give any of us much praise to our faces. Just like you said, I think he worries that if we think we’re perfect and brilliant we won’t ever try to improve. But Curvo, surely you know how proud Father is of you? He’s always telling the rest of us how talented you are.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. He thinks you are a genius. And if you don’t believe me, I will call Makalaurë in here and have him do his impression of Father bragging about you until we are both begging him to stop.”

Curufin wrinkled his nose. “You don’t need to do that. I believe you.” He shuffled his feet awkwardly for a moment, before tentatively putting an arm around Caranthir’s waist. “Thank you, Moryo.”

“Don’t mention it. But listen, I have a business proposal for you. Like a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“I’ll let you boss me around in the forge a  _ bit _ , since you really are better than me at crafting,” Caranthir explained. “But in return, you need to help me rig up a way to keep Huan out of the library, because he always sneaks in and chews on my notebooks. How does that sound?”

Curufin tilted his head thoughtfully, before nodding. “Deal.”


	5. The Last Ones (Curufin, Amrod, and Amras)

Curufin had been delighted at the discovery that his mother was expecting twins. Quite apart from the simple fact that twins were rare and therefore special, it was exciting to think that there would be  _ two  _ new babies in the house. After all, what better way to prove to Curufin’s parents how mature he was than to be a perfect big brother to twice as many babies as usual?

The birth was a difficult one, involving many hours of labor, and while his brothers huddled in the sitting room trying to ignore their mother’s cries of pain Curufin stubbornly stayed in the hallway outside his parents’ bedroom, hoping that somehow Nerdanel could tell he was nearby, that his presence would help her. 

And so it was that after thirteen long hours, when Feanor finally emerged from the bedroom with the news that the twins had been born and all was well, Curufin was the first one in the family to meet them.

“What will you call them?” Curufin asked, peering into the cradle where the tiny newborns lay curled up next to one another. He was delighted to see that they already had a fuzz of bright red hair just like Nerdanel’s; Curufin had always loved his mother’s hair.

Fëanor sighed. “To tell the truth, Curufinwë, I am not sure. I’ve been so focused on adding the new wing to the house and looking after your mother that I’ve barely had a spare minute to think about names.” He glanced at Curufin, a twinkle in his eye. “I say, Curufinwë, you may be able to help me with this. You’re an intelligent and creative boy; what do you think we ought to call the twins?”

As always, Curufin’s heart leaped with joy at the opportunity to help his brilliant father, and he eagerly bent over the cradle and inspected the two babies closely. He knew that all his brothers’ father-names came from things that made them unique, and so Maedhros, as the eldest and the heir, was Third Finwë; Maglor, being incredibly loud, was Strong-Voiced; Celegorm was Strong and Caranthir was Dark-Haired. And Curufin, of course, took great pride in the fact that he’d been named for his incredible resemblance to his father. 

The twins, though, didn’t seem to have much for distinguishing features, other than being small and red-haired. And Nerdanel had already mentioned the red hair in the name  _ she’d  _ given them, which only left…

“They’re very small, aren’t they,” Curufin said thoughtfully. “Are they smaller than the rest of us were as babies?”

“A bit, yes. You and Makalaurë were slightly bigger than them, and Nelyo and Tyelko were nearly twice their size. But twins of any species are usually on the small side, you know, since they have to share nutrients. Do you remember how small Shadow’s twin foals were when they were born?”

Curufin nodded. “Well, maybe we could name them after that. One of them, anyway. Small Finwe.”

“Pityafinwë? Hmm.” Fëanor scratched his chin. “That is a rather sweet name. It might do, for the older one. And for the other one? Any more ideas?”

“Well,” Curufin said. “Are you and Mother going to have any more children?”

Fëanor shook his head sorrowfully. “Personally I would love to try one more time for a daughter, but your mother has made it very clear that seven children is quite enough. I’m afraid these will be the last children in the family, since your aunts and uncles have decided they are done with babies as well.”

“So he’s the last one,” said Curufin, looking closely at the tiny bundle Feanor had told him was the younger twin. “The last Finwë.”

“Curufinwë, you’re brilliant!” Fëanor exclaimed, clapping his hands together in delight. “We’ll call him Telufinwë. It’s a perfect name.”

“Really?”

“But of course.” Fëanor bent down and kissed his fifth son on the top of his head. “Your mother will be delighted.”

(Nerdanel was less “delighted” than she was “exhausted,” and showed little enthusiasm for the twins’ new father-names. Still, Fëanor and Curufin agreed, they’d made the right decisions)

 

“Why do we have to go to this stupid thing?” Curufin griped, as Nerdanel yanked a comb through his tangled dark waves. “We have been to dozens of Makalaurë’s concerts before, and they’re all the same.”

“Same or not, Makalaurë is your brother, and we are going to support him,” Nerdanel reprimanded him gently. “And afterwards we will have dinner with your grandfather and spent the night at the palace, and you always love spending time with Grandfather Finwe, don’t you? So you see it really isn’t such an ordeal.”

“Yes, but Mother…” Curufin glanced disapprovingly at the seven-year-old twins, who were perched on the end of Curufin’s bed and pulling each other’s hair. “Pityo and Telvo are going to be naughty. They’re still just babies, you know.”

“Well, then you can keep an eye on them. If you are mature enough to help your father in the forge then you are old enough to look after your little brothers for the evening.”

Curufin wasn’t convinced this was entirely logical, but knew better than to contradict his mother. Therefore, when the family arrived at the theater and the twins were placed on either side of him (when they sat together, trouble always ensued), sticks of candy in hand in order to keep them quiet, he was determined to make them behave, no matter what.

The concert wasn’t so terrible overall, really. Curufin didn’t have much passion for music, but Maglor  _ was  _ talented, and when he started singing it really was as though time ceased to exist. Even the twins seemed captivated; Amrod stared at the stage with his mouth slightly ajar as he always did when he was concentrating, and Amras, who rarely sat still for more than ten seconds, was able to keep his fidgeting to a minimum. It was understandable, Curufin thought, when everyone stood up and applauded at the end, though the group of silly giggling schoolgirls who threw roses onto the stage was a bit much. (There seemed to be a bunch of giggling schoolgirls at every single one of Maglor’s concerts, though Curufin wasn’t entirely sure if it was the same group every time)

The feast at the palace afterwards was an informal one, with tables placed haphazardly around the ballroom piled high with food—most of it delicious, though Curufin could have done without the squishy baked snails that Indis and her Vanyarin relatives seemed to love. So focused was he on trying every non-snail dish in sight that it took him some time to realize Amrod and Amras had disappeared.

Curufin glanced around the room frantically, depositing his plate on a nearby chair. Quickly, though not so much so that anyone would suspect anything was amiss, he began to circle the ballroom, trying and failing to spot his two smallest brothers in the crowd of friends and relatives. 

_ Mother and Father are going to be furious with me, _ he thought, holding back tears as he paced.  _ The twins are going to get lost or do something horribly silly and it will all be my fault, and Father won’t let me in the forge for a week, and I’ll have to... _

And then, from the dessert table he had just walked by, he heard a giggle.

Bending down, Curufin lifted the intricately embroidered tablecloth, squinting into the darkness. Sure enough, there were his two little brothers, huddled under the table and clearly trying to be inconspicuous (which was not, perhaps, their strong suit). 

“What are you doing under here?”

Amrod put a finger to his lips solemnly. “ _ Hiding.” _

“Hiding from who?”

“From Papa,” Amras whispered urgently. “We put a snail in his wineglass. He’s going to be cross when he finds out.”

Curufin bit back a laugh. “That’s really the only place snails belong. But how long will you stay under here?”

“Forever, I think,” Amrod said. “We can steal food from the top of the table when we get hungry.”

“But what will you do when the maid needs to sweep the floor under here?”

Amrod and Amras looked at each other, shrugging in unison. Curufin sighed. “You two are ridiculous. But I promised Mother I would look after you, so… move over, I guess.”

The twins giggled and shuffled aside as Curufin joined them under the table, cuddling against him like puppies once he’d found a comfortable seat. The space was cramped, but it wasn’t so bad—a bit cozy, really. Of course he would need to eventually convince the twins to apologize to Fëanor, somehow, but in the meantime there were worse places he could be. Like out in the middle of the ballroom, standing in silence next to his father while the adults chatted over his head. 

Only a few minutes later, though, the tablecloth was lifted again, this time revealing their grandfather, who looked down at them with fond amusement. “So there you are, little ones. Your parents have been looking for you.”

“Grandpapa!” squeaked Amrod. “How did you find us?”

Finwë chuckled. “Do you think you three are the first children to ever get into mischief in this palace? I can assure you that your father and uncles spent plenty of time hiding under tables in their youth.”

“Are we in trouble, Grandpapa?” Amrod asked nervously. “Is Papa angry?”

“He was a bit irked at first—as most of us would be, upon finding a snail at the bottom of our glass—but he soon saw the funny side,” Finwë assured them. “If you’ll come out of there and tell him you are sorry you won’t be in a bit of trouble. Shall we?”

He lifted the tablecloth, and the twins obediently crawled out from under the table, Curufin following closely behind. Finwë scooped up both the youngest boys, kissing them on the tops of their heads, and gave Curufin a wink before striding off in Feanor’s direction, leaving the fifth son standing rather awkwardly by the table.

It was with some relief that Curufin saw his eldest brother, a nearly-empty wineglass in his hand, approaching with a rather silly smile on his face. Maedhros gave his younger brother a wink and ruffled his hair, narrowly avoiding spilling red wine on his shoes. “Curvo! Where did you come from, my dear little brother? I thought you’d vanished altogether.”

“I was hiding under the table with the twins,” Curufin said, not bothering to elaborate even when Maedhros looked at him quizzically. “Nelyo, do you think I would be a good father?”

Maedhros raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “You are twenty-five years old, Curvo, surely it’s a bit too soon to be thinking about that?”

“Oh, hush, I’m not saying I will have children anytime soon. I won’t even get married for ages yet. But if I  _ do  _ get married and have children, do you think I’ll be a good father? I mean, I don’t seem to be much use at looking after Pityo and Telvo.”

“Well,” Maedhros said, with the same look he always got when he and Feanor were discussing academic subjects. “Do you  _ like  _ children?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Curufin with a shrug. “The twins aren’t so bad, anyway, when they are behaving.”

“Good, good. And are you able to be patient with them even when they are being naughty?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“Excellent. And finally, are you going to be as annoyingly proud of all your children as Father is of us?”

This, Curufin did not have to think about for more than a second. “Yes, I really think I will.”

“Perfect,” Maedhros said brightly. “Then you will be a brilliant father. Though, if I may make a suggestion,” he added, lowering his voice, “try and have some girls—or at least fewer than seven boys. Civilization is likely to implode if there are any more families like ours running around Tirion.”

Curufin grinned, shaking his head. “Nelyo, even if I had a dozen children, I wouldn’t have a family like ours. There  _ are  _ no families like ours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broke: The twins have slightly silly names because Feanor was out of ideas.  
> Woke: The twins have slightly silly names because Feanor was out of ideas so he let Curufin name them.
> 
> (And the Vanyar eat snails because apparently they are French. Yeah)


	6. The New One (Amrod, Amras, and Celebrimbor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought I wouldn't make a final chapter about baby Celebrimbor? You were Wrong.

Curufin, like his father before him, married young. Whether or not he  _ deserved  _ to be married was a subject of much debate among all his brothers, but it could not be denied that their new sister-in-law Lindë, whose family bred some of the finest horses on the continent, was a clever and no-nonsense young lady who had a decent chance of keeping Curufin in line.

Amrod and Amras, being the youngest of Finwë’s grandchildren and babied by everyone as a result, had spent a considerable amount of time wondering if there would ever be any new additions to the family. Not that they particularly wanted any younger siblings, but both twins agreed that they had a great deal of wisdom that deserved to be passed down to younger generations: how to track deer, how to rearrange people’s bedrooms just enough to be disconcerting while avoiding getting caught, and how to come up with rude lyrics to all of Maglor’s most romantic songs. And so they were delighted when Curufin announced just a few years past his wedding that he and Lindë were expecting a baby, and even more delighted upon returning from a long hunting trip in the North to discover the baby had been born.

Their other brothers had already met the new addition to the family, and informed Amrod and Amras that it was yet another boy (Maglor was, once again, deeply disappointed), that he was very sweet and greatly resembled both his parents, and that Curufin was proud as a peacock and had been bragging nonstop about his son to all who would listen.

When Amrod and Amras finally had a chance to visit their brother in his and Lindë’s new home—located in the middle of the neighborhood where all the finest dealers in gems and metals were to be found—Curufin answered the door a full three minutes after they had first knocked, his leather apron caked in soot and a faint smell of smoke hanging about him.

“What are you two doing here?”

“Well, I should think that’s obvious, isn’t it?” Amrod asked. “We are here to meet our nephew.”

“Your what?”

“Our  _ nephew,  _ Curvo,” Amras sighed. “Your new baby. The one your wife recently produced?”

“Ah, yes, of course. Come in, come in. Lindë!” Curufin called, ushering the twins inside. “Bring the baby out here, would you? His uncles would like to say hello.”

Lindë emerged a moment later bearing a tiny, tightly-swaddled bundle, which she gently handed to her husband. Curufin grinned broadly, beckoning the twins closer. “Boys, meet Telperinquar.”

Amrod and Amras leant in to inspect their nephew, who was peacefully sucking on one of his father’s necklaces. He was, they both thought, quite an agreeable-looking baby, with Lindë’s golden-tan skin and Curufin’s wavy dark hair; and, like his father, he had inherited Fëanor’s fierce silvery eyes. 

“A handsome little fellow,” Amras remarked. “You must be very proud.”

“Oh, quite,” Curufin said with a smug smile. “I rather think he’s the best thing I have ever made.”

“I  _ beg  _ your pardon,” Lindë sniffed. “The best thing  _ you  _ have made?””

Chastised, Curufin kissed her on the cheek. “The best thing  _ we  _ have made, of course, my love.”

“Ugh,” the twins chorused, turning their attention back to the baby. Little Celebrimbor gurgled happily, waving a tiny fist.

“How funny that we get to be uncles now,” Amrod said thoughtfully. “Rather a lot of responsibility, don’t you think?”

“Responsibility? Please. As if I would ever let you take the slightest bit of responsibility for my son,” Curufin snorted. “As a matter of fact, I think this is the last time I will allow you two to see him until he grows up.”

“And how exactly are you going to manage that?” asked Amras. “It’s impossible to avoid anyone in this family for very long even if they  _ want  _ to be avoided, and we most certainly do not. You won’t be able to keep us away, not for a minute.”

“I wouldn’t attempt to separate little Tyelpe from his loving family, darling,” Lindë said, smiling indulgently and taking Celebrimbor back into her arms. “We wouldn’t like to have these two break into the poor child’s nursery at midnight and steal him away. That  _ is  _ what you were planning, wasn’t it, boys?”

“Precisely.”

“There you are, then. We must try our best to avoid that. Now, which of you would like to hold him first?”

The ensuing fistfight, which went on for several minutes, finally resulted in Amrod being the first to hold the new baby, though he politely allowed Amras a turn half an hour later.

 

On days when Curufin was busy in the forge and Lindë needed to help her family in the country, Amrod and Amras always volunteered to look after little Celebrimbor. Curufin feigned reluctance at this, claiming that the twins (having only just come of age) were not nearly mature enough to take care of a child, though Lindë insisted that Celebrimbor adored his youngest uncles and was always thoroughly tired out after spending time with them. Indeed, Celebrimbor and the twins did always have a thoroughly excellent time together—though Curufin did not exactly approve of all their activities.

 

“What exactly are you fools doing with my son?” 

“Contributing to his education, of course,” Amras replied, with great dignity considering that he was dangling his three-year-old nephew upside-down by one foot, while Amrod tickled the little boy under his chin. Curufin, however, was clearly skeptical.

“You’re holding him upside down over the fountain, Telvo. That does not seem particularly educational.”

“Nonsense. He is learning about perspective, it’s a very valuable lesson. And we are having a grand old time, aren’t we, Tyelpe?”

“Yessss,” Celebrimbor said eagerly, wiggling his free foot and nearly kicking Amras in the nose. Indeed, the boy seemed perfectly happy in his current position, despite how red his face was becoming. With an exasperated sigh, Curufin took Celebrimbor into his own arms, frowning severely at the twins.

“I think it is high time I rescued Tyelpe from your bad influence. He really ought to be napping right now anyway.”

“Bad influence?” Amrod said with a wounded expression. “ Nonsense. We are his favorite uncles, aren’t we, Tyelpe?”

“Yesss,” said Celebrimbor again, sticking his thumb in his mouth. Curufin kissed him on the cheek and shook his head fondly.

“I wouldn’t take that too seriously, you know,” he told the twins. “He is three years old, he says yes to everything.”

“Now  _ that  _ is a scientific experiment I would be interested in,” Amras declared. “Tyelpe, do you love your uncles?”

“Yesss.”

“Do you love us more than your father?”

“Yesss.”

“Would you like it if we put a beetle down your father’s trousers?”

“ _ Yes!” _

“Well, the boy’s spoken. Hold still, Curvo.”

Curufin, unsurprisingly, did not hold still. Much to Celebrimbor’s chagrin, he quite briskly fled.

 

Celebrimbor’s fifth begetting day was a joyful occasion, not least because, as Celegorm put it, “it is amazing Curvo managed to keep a child alive this long.” Fëanor, being an extraordinarily doting grandfather, had spared no expense for his grandson’s party, and the High Prince’s sprawling estate on the outskirts of the city had been lit up with hours of fireworks and the guests stuffed with the finest food available. No child in decades had received such presents as little Celebrimbor did: extraordinary clockwork toys, a miniature hunting horn made on Celegorm’s behalf by Oromë himself, and a tiny, beautifully wrought silver harp, among others. 

But at last the guests from the city had all departed, and all that remained were Finwë, Fëanor and Nerdanel, and their children, all gathered around the fireplace, sipping wine and speaking quietly, none of them willing to head to bed.

“My first great-grandchild, already so grown up,” Finwë said with a sigh, reaching over to pat Celebrimbor on his silky dark curls. “How quickly the time passes! It seems only yesterday that I was holding my first grandson.”

“These children do grow at an astonishing rate,” agreed Fëanor. “Nelyo, do you recall how frightened you were at the thought of becoming an older brother? And now here you are, eldest of seven, and an uncle to boot!”

“And with every child that is added to this family I feel as though I’ve lived through an age of this world,” Maedhros laughed, raising his wineglass. “Don’t have any more for a few years, all right, Curvo? I know you aspire to be like Father in all things but there’s no need to have a child every decade.”

“Perhaps not  _ every  _ decade, no,” said Curufin. “But eventually we will have another, I think. What do you say, Tyelpe: would you like to have a brother or sister sometime?”

Celebrimbor nodded, pointing at Amrod and Amras. “Both. Twins.”

Lindë burst into laughter, gently swatting her husband on the shoulder. “You were right all along, my dear, those two  _ are  _ a terrible influence on him! Now he’ll be begging me constantly to have twins and there won’t be a thing I can do about it!”

“I tell you what,” Amras volunteered. “If Pityo and I can find a pair of twin sisters to marry, we’ll give Tyelpe some twin cousins. They do say these things run in families.”

“Well, that narrows down our matchmaking possibilities quite a bit,” Maglor said with a smirk. “Somehow we must find a pair of identical twin sisters who are willing to be married to you two little imps  _ and  _ can tolerate being part of this family. Quite a tall order, I must say.”

“Oh please,  _ we  _ are charming and clever and any girl would be delighted to marry us. The real trouble will be finding a young lady who can put up with  _ your  _ constant noise.”

“I beg your pardon, my  _ noise  _ is considered to be the finest music any of the Noldor has ever made.”

“Shhh!” Curufin whispered urgently. “He’s sleeping!”

Every eye in the room turned to Curufin’s lap, where little Celebrimbor had curled up into a ball and fallen asleep, thumb in his mouth and eyelashes fluttering gently. The adults let out a collective sigh of happiness, gazing at the small boy lovingly.

“My goodness,” Nerdanel said quietly at last. “How lucky we are!”

The rest of the family nodded, smiling, saying nothing. Really, there was nothing more that needed saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two kinds of toddlers in this world: the Caranthir type, who says no to everything, and the Celebrimbor type, who says yes to everything. Let me know which one you are/were, I'm curious.


End file.
